


Eight Christmases

by ProfessorBeast



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Feelstide 2012, Fix-It, Fluff, Get Together, Kittens, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorBeast/pseuds/ProfessorBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their childhoods, each Midgardian Avenger wrote to Santa Claus, asking for a particular gift or two. They didn’t get what they wanted then, but little do they know what Thor can pull off…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Slurs, bullying, implied self-harm, implied child abuse – all relatively minor, however. Christmas III has the first three, Christmas IV has the last, and Christmas VI has the first. 
> 
> So, this is my first serious foray into the world of fanfic! This was a fill to Feelstide prompt #12, “Thor somehow gets everyone on the team something they always wanted as a child… including Clint.”
> 
> The Feelstide peeps and OP definitely deserve kudos; I had a lot of fun writing this. Also, thanks to the wonderful AdamantSteve for showing me around the world of fic-writing, for dragging me into Feelstide, and for helping me beta. Finally, to the person who introduced me to fandom through Clint/Coulson (and you know who you are): I hate you for doing that, but I also love you for doing that, so the game. 
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters are Marvel’s property; I’m just playing with them.

**I. 1934**

The howling wind of the winter storm shook the Rogers’ house from top to bottom. There was not a soul to be seen on the street as trees swayed to the left, to the right, seeming as if the branches would escape the clutches of the roots at any second. But no one could even see as far as the street, anyway; white wisps of snow darted across the window, obscuring the visibility of anything that wasn’t closer than a meter to the window.

It may have been a beautiful sight to some, and it probably wasn’t to some others, but it was the only thing Steve Rogers could see as he lay in bed for yet another December day, stricken with an ailment of his fragility once again.

Sarah Rogers knocked softly on the door, and then stepped in, carrying a tin tray bearing a tin cup of soup. “Aw, Stevie,” she said, “You really don’t look too well today.” Steve slowly sat up with a groan. “I know your stomach isn’t taking things too well right now, but can you drink this soup for me? It’ll make you feel better.”

Without hesitation, Steve began to sip. No matter how many meals in a row he’d drank his mother’s chicken soup, there was always something about it that made him feel just a little bit better, like she’d added a dash of a magical strength elixir in every cup (and he certainly hoped this was the case!). “Thanks, Mom,” Steve’s voice quivered softly, any strength it would otherwise have sapped by the sickness.

“You’re always welcome, my Stevie,” his mom gently replied. A pause. “Why do you always get so sick around this time of year? Sometimes it’s like I lose you for weeks at a time… what I’d give to see what you’d be like if you weren’t always sick.”

Steve didn’t understand what his mom had said, much less the tears on her face; after all, he was only six. Not knowing what else to say, he drew his mom’s attention to something else: “Mommy? Staring out the window all the time is really boring. Can I have something to do?”

“Of course,” Sarah Rogers let out a faint smile, and hurriedly rushed out of the room only to return moments later with a pencil and paper. “Why don’t you write your letter to Santa Claus? Tell him what you want for Christmas this year. You’ve been a good boy, I’m sure he’ll at least give you something you want this year.”

The joy that spread across Steve’s face as he began to write in his sloppy, big letters was the best Christmas present Sarah received that year.

* * *

I **I. 1979**

When Tony Stark was younger, he had no need to believe in Santa Claus. He had no incentive whatsoever to be good, because he was always on Howard and Maria Stark’s “nice” list – no matter how badly he behaved, he was still and would always be their son. And if Tony wanted something for Christmas, by simply asking nicely enough, he’d get it.

When Tony Stark was younger, he’d gotten everything he ever wanted wrapped meticulously under the towering evergreen in the lobby of Stark Mansion. Of course, he wouldn’t be allowed to get within twenty paces of the gift pile before the appointed time of 9:00 on Christmas morning, when Howard and Maria would exchange a single groggy, chaste kiss over their gifts for each other before watching Tony tear apart gift after gift, wrapping paper snatched away before it could touch the impeccably polished marble floor.

When Tony Stark was younger, he would put a huge grin on his face and thank his parents when he got everything he wanted, but never received more than a cold “You’re welcome” in return.

But Tony Stark had left the age of innocence, and he wanted more than ever to believe in Santa Claus.

Christmas was supposed to be a time when families came together, Tony thought. People had told him that it was supposed to be a time when friends and family alike gathered around the fireplace to sing carols; a time when laughs could be shared over a Christmas feast; a time when people put everything aside to love each other, even if only for a day. And it’d grown over the years that something was just completely off about Christmas in Stark Mansion, after sitting through completely silent Christmases year after year after year, after the only person who’d shown him this thing other people dubbed ‘love’ was _Jarvis_ , of all people.

Tony’s parents could give Tony anything and everything money could buy. But Tony wanted something money couldn’t buy, and so he crossed his fingers, prayed for the best ( _If God even exists_ , he thought), brought out a spare pen and pad, and started to write to a man who he hoped existed beyond his dreams.

* * *

**III. 1981**

Phillip J. Coulson stared at the blank pad in front of him. “This is crazy,” he said to nobody in particular.

The space around Phil was incredibly neat. Clothes lay in his closet, sorted by garment, color, make, and style. The papers that were his schoolwork were sorted into crisscrossing stacks, each stack labeled for easy reference, before being placed in a large pile to his left. Phil’s textbooks – he had no time for any other books – lay on his right, stacked into a near-pyramid by size. If not for the Captain America doll peeking out from underneath the otherwise perfectly made sheets, the life-size Captain America posters plastering the room from floor to ceiling, and a whole bunch of other Cap memorabilia Phil had placed around the room, the room could’ve been used to advertise what it could be like if you brought this home, now for the low, low price of only $10,000.

Phil took the assorted writing implements in front of him and lined them up one way, then another, and another, until he was finally satisfied by how he’d organized them – today, stacked into a pyramid (he’d never managed to pull off a standing rectangular arrangement).

Unlike the rest of his room, however, Phillip J. Coulson’s thoughts were not at all in order. He’d disproved the existence of a certain Mr. Claus many years ago, and he was in _high school_ now, for God’s sake. Why the hell did he still have a blank pad open and pens at the ready to write to someone that, by all laws of logic, didn’t exist?

_Well_ , Phil thought, _think about what happened the other day._

_Another sharp ding. Phil checked his watch. He had five minutes left to get to history. Damn this huge school and their short passing times (only hindered by the necessities of the endocrine system). If he wanted to get to class on time, he’d have to take the shorter route, which housed all the bullies’ lockers. Phil sighed, crossed his fingers, and set off at a brisk pace._

_Three minutes later, Phil was nearly out of breath as he rounded the last corner. If he could get to the end of the hallway, he’d be safe for another class period._

_Of course, the bullies who tortured Phil day after day_ had to _be standing right in the middle of the hallway, passing around a container of poorly concealed alcohol._

_“Hey, Phillipp_ a _,” one of them said, “Where ya’ goin’?”_

_“I’m going to history,” Phil tried to sound calm even as his heartbeat began to race. “And my name is Phil. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have to – ”_

_Phil never got a chance to finish his sentence, because right at that moment, the burliest of these bullies proceeded to slam Phil into the wall._

_“You’re not going anywhere, you faggot,” he said, “not until we’re done with you, at least.”_

_“Look at the kid!” Someone else joined in the jeering. “Squirming like that under the football captain. Looks like he really wants it, doesn’t he?”_

_“What a sissy.”_

_Hoots and shouts of “PhillipPA!” ensued, and all Phil could think of was_ stopthepainstopthepainstopthepainohgodpleasejuststopthepain – 

_“Hey, fag, if you like guys that much, suck my balls.” Phil, having closed his eyes already, now felt a pressure against his face._

_“No? Not gonna do that? Then why don’t you man up and take this?” Whump. Phil’s left cheek began to erupt in flames of pain. Whump. No damage to his jaw there, but he’d probably get a bruise from how his head bumped against the wall. Whump, crack. His nose was bleeding and probably broken now. Whump. Whump. Whump._

Phil didn’t remember anything after that. He woke up in the hospital.

Sighing, Phil looked at the fresh red marks his nails had scraped on his arms while reliving the memory yet again, and quickly wiped off the blood that had begun to surface.

He needed to write to someone, and of course, if there was one person he could write to, it’d be Captain America. But would the Captain really approve of what he did the other day? Would the Captain really approve of who Phil was?

Phil reluctantly picked up the pen on top of the stack. _Better to write to a man whose existence has only been disproved by logic than to write to someone who no longer exists at all._

* * *

**IV. 1986**

Bruce Banner hated Christmas. And it wasn’t because something he wanted would always be given from his mother, only to be torn from his hands a minute later by his father; it was because he had to sit through the rest of the pain that came with being stuck with both of his parents. 

Two years ago, Bruce had watched as his dad had reduced his mom to a puddle of tears in a corner. A year ago, Bruce couldn’t watch because his father had knocked him out.

He had no idea what was coming for him this year. 

Christmas Eve dinner started off well, as usual. The spread was plentiful this year, and Bruce was glad to see that both his mom and dad seemed to be happy for once.

Bruce never quite managed to remember what happened next. At some point during dinner, his dad glanced under their scrawny tree to find – as usual – a single gift from Rebecca Banner to Bruce, and then there was a lot of shouting that Bruce didn’t even try to understand, and some noises that sounded painful. The next thing he knew, his father was shouting as some metal was thrown over his hands while a man gently asked Bruce who he wanted to go with: his dad, or his mom.

Bruce went with the person he knew he wouldn’t be hurt by.

There were bright lights and people running around frantically, and a nurse gave him a pen and paper and asked him to write a letter to Santa Claus. In the background, Bruce heard doctors and nurses relaying a few phrases to each other: “didn’t get anything”, “poor kid”, “break it or not”…

Bruce decided to focus on writing the letter instead of listening to what was going on, even if he knew that Santa could never give him what he wanted.

* * *

**V. 1988**

Christmas didn’t exist in the Red Room.

Natasha was a spy – at least, she was training to be one. As she’d grown older, though, she’d grown to be better at her craft, to the point where she’d become even better than the people who had taught her. Natasha _was_ a human, though, and with her coming of age she felt an increasing need to track her feelings down.

Everyone here could be an enemy. The teachers had told her that, told her to never trust anyone, even the other girls in the school with whom she’d become acquainted with quite well. But beyond that, she wanted so badly just to be able to _talk_ to someone, to have someone to confide in, someone to rant to about the woes of the school around her.

People were out of the question, but who would notice a few notebooks missing from her Russian teacher’s supply? Nobody would, as she found out later. It did take quite a bit of skill to conceal them once they were stolen, though, and Natasha did her best to protect the thing that brought her closest to the rest of humanity, as she knew it. 

Christmas didn’t exist in the Red Room. Through a mixture of learning enough about Western culture to run ops and stealing some information here and there, though, she found out all she needed to know about it. She never did believe in Santa, but still made sure to write a letter to him, just in case he was out there somewhere.

* * *

**VI. 1991**

Every year, the sisters at the orphanage would ask everyone to write a letter to Santa Claus, even if half the boys didn’t believe he existed. Every year, Clint Barton would get something which may or may not have been on his wish list, and every year he was allowed to cherish his gift for about two minutes before the sisters turned away for just a second and the other boys snatched and tore up whatever Clint had just acquired. The sisters were nice, but sadly no matter what they did, it wouldn’t stop the boys’ annual ritual. 

The gift Clint got would always be purple, his favorite color. The other boys would always say that he was ‘gay’, a ‘sissy’, or a ‘faggot’ for liking purple. Clint didn’t know what those words meant, but he was quite sure his favorite color was purple, and that wouldn’t be changing anytime soon. 

Barney called him those words every time Clint crawled into Barney’s bed because his bed was cold, or because the other boys had soiled his sheets. The other boys called Clint those words when he spent hours on end throwing darts, aiming to get closer and closer to the center each round, or when he’d watch and marvel at the birds in the sky above him, or when he’d sit back and try and analyze other people and the way they acted. The other boys called him those words when Clint adamantly refused to join them in tackling each other to the ground every day. What could he do? Scrawny as he was, he’d be dead in no time at all.

Thankfully, the sisters protected Clint from ever getting hurt physically, a good deal of the time. 

So what if he was a ‘faggot’? He stayed warm, unhurt and got to do what he wanted to do. If that was what being a faggot meant, he was perfectly happy to be one.

_And_ , he thought, _we’ll see if they’ll still call me that once I put a dart in one of their eyes_.

Clint didn’t want to admit it to himself, but for the first time, he was scared. Even Barney had started to be cold to him, now joining the others in jeering at Clint on a daily basis and shoving him out of bed at night with a “fuck off, faggot”.

Not only that, the rest of the boys had begun to whip their fists out as of late. Clint gently touched the bruise on his knuckle from yesterday and recoiled at the pain. Thank god it was a snow day. He couldn’t go out of the house even if he wanted to. 

After several years in the orphanage, Clint could not care less for Christmas and its festivities. At least, that’s how it looked, anyway; Clint always secretly longed for the possibility that he could finally claim something as his own, but that hope was always quickly crushed. 

“Sister,” he’d said once, “is Christmas always like this? Where only the big kids get loved?” 

The sister replied with a faint smile, “No, Clint, it isn’t, and I’m sorry it has to be this way; I really can’t do anything about it.”

Clint was tired of having things that were initially _his_ taken from him. _It can’t hurt to ask for what I really want this time._

He finished his letter just as the last rays of light from the sun shone through the windows, the hues of orange, red, and purple a sight to marvel at in themselves.


	2. Christmas Present

**VII. 2012**

Thor was far better with computers than anyone would’ve ever thought possible for an Asgardian.

* * *

Two months after the Chitauri and Coulson’s death, Tony invited the Avengers to move into the newly renamed and refurbished Avengers Tower. None of them really had a choice after Fury “suggested” they make the move to increase team cohesiveness. 

A few days after the move at breakfast, Thor made his usual overdone entrance, booming: “Greetings, Midgardian Avengers! How do you fare this fine morning?”

“We’re fine, thanks,” Tony said nonplussedly, and turned back to the StarkPad in front of him.

Thor looked around the room. It appeared everyone else’s attention was directed to a little screen that each of them had in front of them. Steve was looking at black-and-white pictures; Bruce’s screen was coated in text; the Widow appeared to be spinning shurikens on her screen and Hawkeye looked like he was shooting birds through a slingshot.

“Damnit, only two stars?” he muttered.

Observing Thor’s confused look, Tony asked: “Hey, Mr. Asgard, want one? We’re the official beta testers for the next version of the StarkPad.”

“I would most certainly enjoy partaking in this testing!” Thor bellowed. “How may I peruse this magnificent and most intriguing object of yours?” 

“Here, let me show you,” Steve said, pulling up a chair next to him for Thor to sit in. “These things are called apps – if you want to do something, there’s probably an app for it. And this is called the Internet…”

* * *

Two months later, Thor was able to design apps, set up websites, and now, hack into the SHIELD mainframe. Of course, his teammates thought he still had no idea what a word processor was. 

Thor grinned at his latest advance. He wanted to proclaim his victory to the others, but Clint had said that wasn’t really respectful, so he decided to keep his mouth shut for now. 

Scrolling down the directory, a folder labeled ‘Christmas’ caught his eye. Had Steve not talked on and on about this Midgardian season just a few days prior, Thor wouldn’t have any idea what it meant at all.

His curiosity piqued, Thor double-clicked on it. A large number of images came up, all labeled “CONFIDENTIAL ARCHIVE: LEVEL 7+ CLEARANCE”.  A quick scan revealed that all the images were scans of letters of some sort, and Thor quickly decided to scour their contents as closely as he could.

_Dear Santa Claus,_

_I hope I have been a good boy this year. But I have not been able to do many good things. Ive been sick in my bed for a lot of time. But I do what Mommy says I should do. Does that make me good? I dont want much this year. What I want most is the strenght to see the beauty of the world. I hope it isnt too much to ask. Thank you for making all the good children hapy every year._

_With love_

_Steve Rogers_

_Santa,_

_Hey. It’s Tony Stark. I wouldn’t normally write to you, but my parents seem to be incapable of giving this as a Christmas gift. You see, they can buy me stuff, but no matter what I do, they don’t seem to be happy. If you can, Santa, I want to do something that can make my parents happy, and make my family feel like a loving one for once. I don’t know if you’re even out there, but if you are, I hope you can give this to me somehow._

_Regards_

_Tony Stark_

The next image had an additional label – “LEVEL 8 CLEARANCE ONLY”.

_Dear Mr. Claus,_

_Greetings! Firstly, if this does reach you, I would like to formally apologize for disproving your existence several years ago. My faith in magic – or whatever they call it now – would certainly be restored._

_Given that you’re probably watching me as I write this, you’re probably surprised that I’m writing to you instead of my childhood hero. The thing is, I think I’m gay. There, that’s the first time I’ve written that down. People tell me this isn’t now and isn’t ever going to be a good thing, and I’m scared (marvel at it – a freshman in high school,_ scared _) that Captain America wouldn’t accept that._

_And by now, you’ve probably seen those jocks pushing me around the corridors, beating me up. It got serious enough that I was in the hospital the other day. I’ve wondered whether Captain America would’ve helped me fight back, or whether he would’ve helped them break a few more bones in my body._

_It seems incredibly improbable that you can help me, Mr. Claus, but you’re one of the few people I have left to turn to. If you can, granting any one of my wishes (or guiding me to a path where I would be able to help myself with them) would really make my day: To know that people really are on my side; to really understand who I am; to stop the pain others are inflicting on me; and to find someone to help guide me and protect me in this journey of life._

_Always ready to believe –_

_Phillip J. Coulson_

_Dear Santa,_

_I know it’s a little late to write this, it’s Christmas Eve already. But I’m in a scary place and I don’t want to focus on anything else right now. I know that you probably can’t give me what I want, but it’s worth a try. Worse comes to worse, at least you’ll know what I want._

_Daddy has been hurting my family. He hits me and Mommy and shouts at us, and makes Mommy cry. I don’t know why he does this. I know he’s a good person inside. Because there are some times our family is really happy._

_Santa, if you can, can you make Daddy’s bad side go away? I know this is hard so if you can’t do that I just want there to be more peace in my family._

_Sincerely_

_Bruce Banner_

The next image seemed to be one of computerized text, but an additional label, “TRANSLATED FROM RUSSIAN CIPHER”, explained the discrepancy.

_Dear Santa,_

_I’m sorry this can’t be longer. If they find out I’m writing this secretly, I’ll be killed instantly. If you can read this, I’m sick of living in fear. I want to be able to sleep without thinking that I can be killed before sunrise, and I want to be able to have something that belongs to me, and no one else._

_Thank you_

_Natasha Romanov_

_Santa,_

_It usually doesn’t matter what I ask for or what I get. You watch me; you’ve seen how anything I get for Christmas lasts for all of two minutes before being ripped to shreds by the other boys here in the orphanage._

_But I hope I’ve been good this year, and I hope you can give me what I want this time, because I want to make an extra special request._

_I want a pair of wings. (Purple, if you can, but the wings matter more.) I want to be able to fly over everyone, so that no one can hurt me or touch my stuff. And if you can’t do that, a friend would be nice. Someone who can take care of me and protect me and maybe love me too._

_Thanks a lot_

_Clint Barton_

A small pile of tissue from Thor’s tears had accumulated on the table in front of him. In their former years, his teammates hadn’t said much, but these had told him so much more about them than he had ever hoped to know, than he ever wanted to know…

Just then, Thor noticed that the bottom of his screen read “Image 7 of 208”. He scrolled to the next image. Blank. The next image was white, the next empty as well. _Something has to be here_ , he thought, and kept swiping his fingers across the screen, scrolling through the images. He was rewarded when the last image, labeled “LEVEL 8 CLEARANCE ONLY”, held three small notes in smaller, digital font, presumably to hide them from all but the most observant of people:

_CFBARTON-NOTES-6.8.12_

_It’s unprofessional to have feelings for your handler but I’ll admit it, I liked Coulson. God I just wish I could see him again, even if it was only briefly and tell him that I still remember every curve of his body, every wrinkle on his face, where everything was placed in his apartment, every time I made him smile, and that I_ loved _him. I wish I could have written all these feelings down earlier but I couldn’t and now I have to because psych is forcing me to and they say they won’t look at these notes but I don’t care. Phillip motherfucking Coulson is DEAD now and now I can’t even tell him I loved him. I loved him. And even if he were alive I probably don’t have a shot in hell at getting him and for all I know he’s probably not into guys_

_I want to talk to someone and when he was alive I would go talk to him but I don’t have anybody left now and Tasha’s probably figured everything out but she claims that love doesn’t exist and I’m scared of talking to her about anything personal. My aim at the range is getting worse by the day and I don’t know what to do help please help please help please he_

_PJCOULSON – MEMORANDUM_

_NOTE: THIS IS TO BE SENT TO CLINTON FRANCIS BARTON VIA COMPUTER SYSTEM ONLY IN THE EVENT OF MY UNEXPECTED DEATH_

_Clint,_

_If you’re receiving this, it means I’ve had an untimely run-in with death. I’m writing this because I’m too scared to say it myself, but I wanted you to know this._

_I love you. I’ve loved you since the day we’ve met. I don’t know if you feel the same way, but I’ve loved you more than anyone else I’ve loved before, to the point where it scares even me._

_If you’re reading this, I won’t ever know if you felt the same way, but I wanted to know that you deserve to be loved; and feelings reciprocated or not, wherever I am, I’ll do whatever I can to take care of you. You have been and will always be a magnificent asset and a wonderful person to know. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Stay strong._

_Love_

_Phil_

_SYSTEM-WIXMERROR  
_ _MESSAGE UNDELIVERED: SEE FILE://PJCOULSON_

Thor followed the link, frowned, read through the rest of the file, frowned some more, and shut off his StarkPad. He knew what he had to do, and to do that he had to make a swift return to Asgard. After all, this Midgardian custom of ‘Christmas’ _was_ about love and giving.

* * *

Today’s invasion was a particularly large and nasty swarm of mutated wasps. Clint, Cap, and Natasha couldn’t do much, so they stayed on the ground, keeping civilians out of harm’s way. The Hulk couldn’t do much either, so Bruce stayed in the Tower. That left Tony in the air, throwing whatever he could to exterminate the insects as fast as he could.

“Where the fuck is that Asgardian,” he shouted into the comm, “and why the fuck isn’t he here to guard our asses when we need him?”

“Very punny, Stark, very punny.” Clint replied. “He’s in Asgard. Personal business or something along those lines.”

Every member of the team moved their earpieces away from their ears when Tony screeched, “Well, FUCK THAT!”

* * *

“Sorry, guys, looks like it’s pancakes for breakfast every day for the next week,” Bruce’s voice quivered. “Umm… I accidentally made enough for us and the big oaf, but it doesn’t look like he’s coming back any time soon.” 

A collective groan emanated from the four corners of the living room as each Avenger was stuffed and yet a stack of pancakes nearly a meter high still remained.

“Well, Fury did say he’d get the Fantastic Four to take care of anything that happened on Tuesdays,” Steve chimed in eagerly. “It’s already a week into December. Why don’t we get this place decorated for Christmas?” 

“There’s an app for that, Cap,” Tony muttered, and five seconds later tinsel lined the walls as a pristinely decorated Christmas tree appeared in front of their very eyes.

Another groan came when the team realized that Tony had somehow conjured a real tree out of nowhere.

* * *

“Why can’t that damn Asgardian be here to guard our asses when we need it?” 

“Tony, it really isn’t funny the second time round.” 

* * *

“Just where is our hammer guy, Nat?” 

“I don’t know, Tony, but I asked him to be back for Christmas Eve dinner, about two hours out from now.”

“Well, he better show up soon, my hands are getting tired from peeling all these potat – ”

Right on cue, the sound of a crack of lightning and a faint “Midgardian compatriots, I have arrived!” poured into the kitchen. 

“I’ll get it,” all five of the Avengers in the kitchen said, and clamored to greet Thor, whose arms were laden with what seemed to be poorly wrapped gifts.

“Salutations.” Thor boomed. “I have returned! I believe your custom here is to place these under our collective tree?”

“Yes, Thor, right over there.”

“Thank you, great Captain of America. Now, what exactly is that smell?”

Bruce’s face went beet-red as he began murmuring and ran to the kitchen. “Oh no, not the ham. Please don’t let it be burnt, please don’t let it be burnt…”

* * *

The ham was fine. The apple pie was another story.

* * *

Thor’s stomach uttered a low growl. Every dish on the table had been wiped clean, and every one of his teammates appeared to be in a similar food coma.

“Friends,” he said, standing to address the others, “may I motion to reveal all gifts tonight, given that time is of the essence with the gifts I have prepared for you?”

Everyone seemed to perk up except for Clint, who replied with a drawl, “Sure; I bet if we don’t, Iron Man here is going to break the rules and peek tonight anyway.” 

The six of them immediately proceeded to descend upon the tree as if they were all six-year-olds. Gifts were passed around hastily and the wrapping paper on each was quickly shredded. Natasha received a matroyshka doll, courtesy of Clint. Steve unwrapped a large framed vintage 1930s photograph from Bruce, and Pepper had sent Tony something called a ‘Furby’, much to Clint’s amusement. And among the furious opening of gifts, the Avengers found that each of them had received an identical set of Avengers dolls and merchandise, each with a card simply saying “<3 Fury”.

Everyone blushed and ignored Thor when he exclaimed, “Why, what is this wonderful gift I have received here? What a beautiful representation of the human phallic form it is!” 

At long last, only Thor’s gifts to the rest of the team remained, and as the unwrapping frenzy finished each Avenger in turn rotated themselves to face Thor. In a hushed voice, Thor spoke:

“Good friends! It is very much a pleasure to partake in this Midgardian custom with all of you. I am sorry if I have not done this correctly, but I have done my best from what I know.”

“This Midgardian custom is about showing our love for one another, yes?” Everyone nodded their heads. “I love all of you dearly, and so I have scoured all the realms to try and find something each of you has wanted.”

“Firstly, our valiant leader, the Captain of America. When you were younger, you wanted the strength to see the beauty of the world, did you not?” 

“Y – yes, I did.”

“Certainly, now, as the paragon of strength and spirit around the world, you are capable of that, and even more than that. But still, I aim to fulfill your wish, and so this is for you.”

Steve slowly unwrapped the parcel which had been handed to him, making sure not to tear the paper covering its outside, to reveal something which looked remarkably like a pencil and a small stack of paper.

Thor recognized the confusion, and continued, “Yes, this appears to be what you Midgardians call a pencil and sheets of paper. But these are certainly not ordinary. These are enchanted, rare even in Jotun, where they are made. It alters the very fabric of reality itself. If an artful hand manages to capture in sufficient detail a horror that they have witnessed in the previous hour – a death, say, or torture – using this writing instrument and paper, the enchantment will reverse that horror, and turn it into something beautiful instead. This beauty changes with every use, but the enchantment will work every time. For within every horror, there is something beautiful.  Captain, to see the true beauty of the world you need to see that even the worst things as we see them have a degree of beauty in them, and that is why I gift this to you today.” 

A pause, then: “Thank you, Thor. I’m deeply grateful for this gift.”

“You are most welcome, my Captain.” After letting Steve’s gift go around the group, he continued: 

“Man of Iron! When you were younger, you wished to make your parents proud, and have a loving family. I hope that my job has been made easy, and that today both wishes have already been granted. You have certainly made your parents very proud through your philanthropy, and I would hope that all of us gathered here tonight would agree that we, as your family, really do love you, for we all feel the love that comes from your heart, which most certainly exists.” 

Clint nodded with everyone else, but he swore he noticed a reflection of a tear in Tony’s left eye.

“So, then, Man of Iron, I was only able to find one gift which truly suited your nature.” Thor handed over a very small package, and Tony unwrapped it to find a glowing, perfectly constructed cone, about the size of a shuttlecock. “This device appears to work with your Midgardian technology, and yet is a product of Asgardian engineering. I imagine you would be eager to investigate this.” 

Tony only murmured a “Thanks” as he’d already begun to take the object apart. 

“Friend Natasha!” The Widow’s face perked up. “You asked not to be living in fear, and to have something of your own. Is that not correct?”

“That’s exactly right,” Natasha confirmed.

“I would surely hope that by now, both of these wishes have been granted?”

“Most certainly.”

“And I am very glad they are. In looking to find something compatible with the spirit of your wishes, though, the best gift I managed to find came from this very realm of Midgard. I sincerely hope you are not disappointed with that. However, I would think you would be greatly enamored with what I have br – ”

A soft _mewl_ came from a box behind Thor, and the wide grin on Natasha’s face as she played with the white kitten seconds later said everything that need to be said.

After everyone had been sufficiently tickled by the kitten’s barbed tongue, Thor recaptured everyone’s attention by addressing the next Avenger in line: 

“Friend Bruce! You once wrote that you wanted peace in your family, did you not?” 

The color drained out of Bruce’s face as he replied, “Yes. Yes. I did.”

A ghostly silence passed over the room.

Finally, Bruce quietly said, “I… I wrote that 26 years ago today. The night my mom died and my… my dad got sent to an asylum. I never saw them again.” 

One by one, the Avengers huddled around Bruce, who had now curled up and begun to sob. 

“It’s alright, Bruce, we’re here for you, and we’ll always be here for you.”

“We’re your family now. We won’t ever hurt you, alright?”

“Bruce,” Thor eventually said, “I brought you this.” Thor clumsily fumbled around the items he had brought until he revealed a luminous blue cube. “This is not the Tesseract, but rather a close relative. There are many of these in the realms, because its energy can only be used for finding peace in oneself rather than to harm others. Its effect, however, varies from person to person. For some, it brings them back into past memories; for others, it brings them into their dreams; and for others still, it saps pure negative energy from them. All I know for sure is that it brings a greater degree of inner peace to anyone who uses it.”

“Thank you,” Bruce choked on a sob, and moved to embrace Thor. 

Tissues were brought over and the Avengers – plus their new kitten – comforted Bruce together. “Cheer up, bud,” Tony said. “It’s Christmas; it’s a time for celebration.” And sure enough, once a few bad science puns were thrown around, Bruce was nearly back to normal, but everyone stayed where they were out of fear.

Everyone’s eyes, however, were now on Clint, and the one gift Thor had not revealed yet. 

“Ah, the good Hawk.” Thor broke the silence. “If I read correctly, in the orphanage you never did manage to get a present of your own.” Clint nodded. “And after you got tired of other boys destroying your present, you asked for wings.” 

Without skipping a beat, Thor removed the covering on the last gift to reveal exactly what Clint had wanted – a pair of wings, enlarged so that they might fit on human arms, but similar in shape and structure to a hawk’s or a falcon’s, and covered in soft deep purple feathers. “These will let you fly, and yes, they come in purple.” Taking in all this, Clint’s face lit up, while the jaws of everyone else had dropped in shock, before each pair of lips in turn began to curve upwards in a smile. 

When Clint motioned forward towards the wings, he realized Thor wasn’t going to let go of them just yet. “Please humor me, though, good Hawk,” Thor said, “for I have more to say before I would permit you to test them.” Though no one noticed it, everyone had leaned forward now, ears enraptured and hanging on to Thor’s every last word. 

“I do not know much of Midgardian customs, but I would not like to be disrespectful to anyone here. Hawkeye, could you come with me to this next room?”

Clint and Thor walked in silence, only broken by Tony’s murmur of “JARVIS, put up soundproofing and don’t record their conversation.” Once they’d made their way into the room and shut the door, Thor continued:

“Clint. You have realized by now that the Son of Coul has always looked up to our dear Captain of America, yes?” A nod. “In his former years, he always asked himself what the good Captain would do when he stumbled upon hard times in himself. But, even if Coulson talked to his idol in his mind, or in his dreams, or later on in person, he kept one thing from him – and for that matter, from everyone else – because he was afraid his role model would detest it.” Even though the only people in the room were Clint and Thor, silence still hung heavily in the room. “This was the fact that he was enamored with other men.” 

“I should’ve guessed…”

“The Son of Coul wanted the Captain’s approval of who he was many Christmases ago. I would think it would mean a lot to him, but whether you want to approach him on those grounds is a decision I will leave to your good judgment.” 

“Thor, what difference can this make? Coulson’s been dead for six months…”

“Good Hawk, please let me finish.” Clint immediately resumed his wide-eyed silence. “I need to tell you one more thing: not only was the Son of Coul enamored with other men, he was enamored with a specific man – namely you.” Clint’s face began to flush to a deep red. “And in that manner, he did reciprocate what you felt towards him.”

Clearly in disbelief, Clint could only muster a “Wha – Wha – WHAT?” before Thor handed him a copy of Coulson’s unsent letter. Clint clutched it close to his chest once he’d read it, but Thor quickly continued:

“Brother Hawk. That year you wished for wings, did you not also wish for someone to care, to protect, to love you?”

“I did, but that opportunity’s gone now, because I couldn’t – ”

Thor silently threw Clint another piece of paper, which read:

_Valley Hospital_  
 _41.74429, -73.75949  
_ _Ward 1221_

Moving back outside the room, Thor boomed: “Fellow friends! I have just informed our good Hawk here that our dear friend, the Son of Coul, is alive and well!”

There was a blanketing silence before an uproarious clamor began from the gathered Avengers:

“WHAT?”

“Thor, I really hope you aren’t trolling us.”

“How did we not know this earlier?”

“FURY. I WILL FIND YOU, AND I WILL KILL YOU.”

“If Thor knows where Coulson is, we need to go and bring him back…”

Turning back to Clint, Thor quietly said: “You still have a chance, good Hawk. Now, as you Midgardians say, take those broken wings and learn to fly.”

“Hey, I understood that reference!” Steve piped up, his super-hearing having clearly picked up Thor’s comment.

“Thor, how on Asgard did you mange to – ”

“Later, Man of Iron, later. Friends, I agree: We must try and return the Son of Coul to our side with all the expediency we can muster. I have already asked our good JARVIS to prepare the cars. We must depart. Hawkeye, follow our lead.”


	3. Christmas Future

Clint stroked his newly acquired appendages. They were in Clint’s favorite shade of purple, and seemed to be crafted with the most delicate of hands. Every feather had been sealed on at just the right angle, carefully positioned to give the most aerodynamic wing shape possible. 

If only Santa ( _no, Odin_ , he chuckled) had given him these when he was younger.

He looked at the clock. Their cars had probably begun to weave their way out of the maze that was the Avengers Tower garage by now. Trying his best to suppress a grin, he threw the strap connecting the two wings behind him and quickly slotted his arms into the slots in the wings. 

Clint let out a fascinated gasp as the enchantment took over. A warm tingle went up Clint’s arms, the gaps between his arms and the wings filling up so that they became one. He felt his fingers first melding into a wingtip, then the rest of the wings attaching feather by feather, inch by inch, until Clint could no longer feel his arms but instead felt two wings by his side. 

“JARVIS, unlock the balcony door and prepare a runway strip for me.” The wall in front of him slid open, and Clint could feel the chilly midnight wind tickling each individual feather. Clint nervously flapped his wings by his side, to no avail. He didn’t know how to fly, but Thor had said “You are the Hawk; you will learn quickly, dear compatriot.”

From the Avengers’ residence eighty floors up, cars were nothing but specks in one’s vision, and even then they occasionally decided to clump into one mass during rush hour. For once, even Hawkeye couldn’t tell which car the rest of the Avengers were in.

Mjolnir’s lightning, though, was unmistakable.

His heart racing now, Clint spread his wings, took a step forward, and another, and another, and another, and _leapt_

Then his bird instincts took over.

Clint let out a loud whoop as he began to glide over the grid below him that was Manhattan, his body banking to fly a large, lazy arc over to the beam of light powered by Tony’s arc reactor that now hung over the swiftly moving car. 

He watched the lights below him grow sparser by the second as eager children went to bed, and as parents wrapped the last gifts left by Santa so they could get a good night’s sleep for once. 

In Central Park the streetlamps illuminated the hills and the bridges, but the hawk’s night-vision (which seemed to have come bundled with the wings) illuminated everything else: the benches and the homeless men who had bitterly taken up residence there on this cold night; the cages of the zoo and the animals who slept there; the loners who strolled late at night on Christmas Eve; and the couples who kissed gently in the quiet spots, the hidden alcoves of the park.

Clint tucked his wings behind him and accelerated downwards. As he hurtled downwards he went faster – faster – faster – until finally he flapped his wings to move back upwards just seconds before he hit the ground. Finding much exhilaration in this, he did this over and over again to his heart’s content.

Below him, people who he might’ve pinpointed as troublemakers if he were Hawkeye right now hugged and exchanged little gifts behind a dumpster; two men staggered down 130th Street with bottles of what looked like whiskey, singing loudly enough for Clint to hear; the sound of the late-night 6 train emanated from the street that lay under him. 

Flying higher up, Clint caught a wave of warmer air, and floated upon the strong winds effortlessly. Wings fully spread, head looking down, Clint soared above civilization below him.

It was the best feeling he’d ever had.

The beam moved out of the thermal’s path, and Clint tilted to the left, moving out of the thermal to follow it.

Gently gliding Earthward, he noticed that the car seemed to be on a rural road. Dimly lit lampposts were scattered erratically, but for the most part it was just Clint and the car. 

“Hawkeye! How are you doing up there?” Steve’s voice rose clearly above the hum of the car, head poking out of a hole from the top of the car.

“Fine like you wouldn’t believe!”

“We’re about half an hour out, if Thor’s coordinates are right. You alright to keep flying, or you want to join us here?”

“I’ll take the flying any day.”

“Alright then, keep following the beam and you’ll be following us there.”

Before Steve could get his head back into the car, Clint swooped down, his face mere inches from Steve’s, his speed matching the car’s precisely.

“Hey, Steve. Um… Can I ask you a question, privately?” Though Clint had been working with the Avengers for six months, he realized that he’d never gotten the chance to ask this question, but with what Thor had told him, there was really no way of going around it now.

“Sure. What’s the matter?”

“You… you’ve probably found out by now that I’m gay.” A nod. “Honestly… what do you think of that?”

Steve’s lips slowly curled into a smile. “Clint, even though I was frozen for 70 years, I’m not as conservative as others might think. To me, it’s pretty simple: it doesn’t matter who you love, because love is love.”

Clint smiled in return, said “Thanks, Steve. It’s inconvenient to talk here. I’ll talk to you later, alright?” and swooped back up above the trees. 

Clint’s wings settled into a comfortable flapping rhythm along the mostly straight road. Still overjoyed by the sensation of flight, Clint decided to distract himself from thinking about anything else, much less the fact that they were half an hour out from seeing Coulson – no, maybe it’d be _Phil_ now – again, who they all thought was dead, or the fact that Clint loved him and his feelings seemed to be reciprocated, or the fact that perhaps he finally would get the Christmas wish he’d asked for nearly every Christmas since that year in the orphanage – to have someone, _his_ someone, that he’d be able to love and who would be able to love him forever.

Before he knew it, the guiding beam of light flashed to signal him, and the vehicle below screeched into a nearly invisible side road. Clint instinctively banked right to follow the car, then swooped down below to stay a little closer to the car.

After a few minutes, dim lights began appearing in the distance, and both Clint and the car began to accelerate towards their destination, which slowly revealed itself in its glory.

As he got closer, Clint observed that all the windows were sealed, and realized that he couldn’t just fly into a room. Only several hundred meters away now, he quickly tilted his body backwards, flapped his wings to slow him down, and hit the dirt with a jolt and at a sprint. Instantly, Clint felt the magic in his arms recede and the sensation of his arms return, and he slowed down briefly to take the wings off before joining the rest of the team, now engaged in a mad dash towards the beckoning hospital doors.

The receptionist could barely utter “Who…” before Thor and Steve had begun darting up the main stairwell, while the more human of them piled into an elevator.

The elevator took only twenty seconds to climb twelve floors, but with everyone’s breath held, heart racing and hands clenched in nervousness, anticipation, excitement, anger (Clint heard Tony mutter under his breath, “If this isn’t an elaborate hoax by Thor, fuck you and your guts, Fury, I’m going to make your good eye black”).

_Ding_. The doors opened.

“Hello! May I ask who you are, who you’re visiting, and why you’re visiting?” A nurse greeted them with a spring in her voice, obviously aware of their hasty entrance.

Natasha swiftly replied: “We’re the Avengers, and we’re here to deliver a Christmas present to Mr. P. Coulson in ward 1221. We know it’s past midnight, but we’ll be quiet. Thank you for your cooperation.”

The foursome darted silent-footed down the passageways, and were joined by the slightly louder Thor and Steve moments later. Together, they turned corner after corner, following Clint’s lead down the single-file halls.

Just as Tony was going to ask “How many damn wards do they have?” Clint stopped dead in his tracks, and the rest of the troupe halted with him.

Like every other room on the floor, the door was simple, polished rosewood. The only indication that this is what they were looking for was the small index card placed along the side, reading “WARD 1221 – P. J. COULSON”.

“Holy shit,” Tony echoed the whole team’s thoughts. “You really weren’t kidding, Thor.”

The only thing the Avengers could hear after Tony had spoke was the _ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump_ of their own hearts beating.

Slowly, Clint put a hand against the cold metal doorknob, only to retract it moments later. Looking down the row of superheroes assembled with him, he saw only nervousness on their faces. He stared at each of them in turn, and finally, Steve at the back nodded slowly and said, “It’s all yours, Clint; it’s all yours.” Clint raised his right hand to the team, put his left index finger against his lips ( _don’t say a word)_ , and pushed the door open.

Coulson muttered, “Oh, here they come again, hallucinations of the team I had and probably won’t ever see again. See, they’re even silent, just like last time. I wonder what Clint will say my favorite flavor of jam is this ti – ”

“Raspberry,” Clint interjected. Of course, it was their standard operating procedure: an identity check protocol. “What do I get when I get takeout at Tuk Tuk Thai?”

Coulson has sat bolt upright in his bed at this point. “Pad thai with far too much chili powder for your own good. What two things am I afraid of?”

“Losing everything you care about, and embarrassing yourself in front of your childhood hero,” Clint recited, barely suppressing a grin at this point. “The answers to your next three questions, in order, are _Supernanny_ , Brussels sprouts, and Budapest. Guys,” he looked behind him, “he’s real.”

The ensuing noise woke up the entire floor, but nobody in that room really cared at that point.

“Great Son of Coul! You are alive! This is a miracle the gods would speak of.”

“You know Fury held a closed-casket burial, right? And that he told us you were dead by staining your Cap trading cards in your blood!”

“…that motherfucking son of a bitch owes me a new set, pronto.”

“Coulson, we really missed you when you were gone…”

“…Coulson, I’d like to invite you to move into Avengers Tower with us…”

“…Thor, how on earth _did_ you manage to find out where I was? I don’t even know, nor am I allowed to find out where I am, that’s level 8…”

“It is simple, Son of Coul! I simply hacked into the SHIELD mainframe, and then I…”

“Thor, you WHAT?”

After a while of this conversation (and, in return for not being sued for waking everyone up, an impromptu Avengers autograph session), Phil cleared his throat and announced: “Excuse me! Would you mind clearing out of the room for a while? I’d like to have a conversation with Barton here.” 

The Avengers, sans Clint, turned silent with astonishing rapidity and filed out of the room, leaving Clint – who now sat in a white plush chair by the bedside – and Phil staring at each other.

“Clint – ” Phil began, “Wait, may I call you that?”

“Yes, please.”

“Call me Phil.” An almost imperceptible upwards curl in Clint’s smile, one that only people who have known him for years might notice. “I promised myself I’d do this if I got out from Loki alive and I saw you again, so I guess… um… how do I say this… just… I…” 

Clint had never seen Phil stumble on his words like this, and so he decided to speak: “Phil. I have no idea what Thor did or how he did it, but he somehow obtained letters that we had each written to Santa Claus when we were young.” 

Phil’s cheeks began to flush. “I only ever wrote one letter to Santa…”

“Yes,” Clint said, “and Thor told me what you wrote in it.” Seeing that Phil was at a loss for words, he continued: “I don’t know how far along you’ve come with dealing with it, Phil, but really, it’s alright to be gay. While you were gone, Phil, we had three more states pass marriage equality laws, and even the Supreme Court has agreed to take up gay marriage cases. And earlier tonight, even Cap said that ‘it doesn’t matter who you love, because love is love.’ “ Phil’s tension visibly deflated at this.

“Phil, Thor also found a letter that was never sent out. You wanted it to be sent to me if you died, but you really weren’t dead, and so the message never got sent. Here.” Clint brought the now-crumpled piece of paper out and handed it to Phil, whose face turned an even deeper shade of red. 

“Phil. Can you look at me?” Their eyes locked. “I… I need to tell you that all this time, I’ve felt the same way about you. I didn’t know if you were into guys, and I tried to block all my thoughts about you because they were unprofessional and just seemed so _wrong_. But Phil, I’ve loved you since the day you shot me in the leg to recruit me, and these last few months have been so, so hard for me. I’ve already lost you once, and I really don’t want to lose you again.” Clint’s whole body started to shake. “So, Phil, if you still want to, can we try to make this work, somehow?”

Phil didn’t say anything; he just dragged Clint to his bed and sank into a kiss. Clint was more than happy to oblige.

Once they’d pulled away from each other, there was a quick rap on the door, followed by a grinning Bruce poking his head in. “Hey, Coulson,” he said timidly, “The nurses say you’ve been in recovery for months but you aren’t allowed to check yourself out. Of course, we took the liberty of doing that for you, so let’s move. The sun’s about to rise, anyway; you can join us for Christmas breakfast.”

Coulson’s smiles were rare in the first place, but Clint didn’t think he’d ever seen one as wide as the one Coulson had on when he his ward that morning. Either way, Clint put his wings in the trunk and joined the rest of the team in the car.

That morning, the Avengers devoured a human-size stack of Bruce’s pancakes, caused alarms to go off in SHIELD headquarters when they marched Coulson in, and restrained Fury so Tony could give him a black eye.

To Clint, every second was worth it, and the days only got better and better from there.

* * *

**VIII. 2015**

The Avengers’ Christmas Eve dinner had become a tradition by now, and Coulson always made the first toast (which was always to Clint).

Standing to get the Avengers’ attention once again, his voice quivered: “Tonight, I would like to offer a toast to a certain Clint Barton.” Glasses were raised around the table. “If not for his spirit and his love three years ago, I might not have been reunited with you all today.”

He walked around the table to his lover, got down on one knee, and continued, “Hawkeye, you are the – ”

Coulson didn’t get much further than that, though, as Clint laid the ring box he’d previously concealed and prepared on the table, gave a smirk and a “You bastard, I thought I’d beaten you to something for once”, and tackled the surprised Phil to the ground in a kiss, to the Avengers’ unanimous applause.

 

**FIN**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Letters To Santa: A Glimpse Into The Life Of Clint Barton](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3147971) by [NiTeLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiTeLight/pseuds/NiTeLight)




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